


Food/Porn

by luckynik



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Dean eating, Dean gets a night off, F/M, Food Porn, Language, Night Drive, Pie, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Smut, Two Shot, i love watching him eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckynik/pseuds/luckynik
Summary: With no case and no pressing end-of-the-world type emergencies, Dean & Hunter!Reader have the night off. And all he really needs is a bacon cheeseburger and a cold beer... and pie... and you.





	1. Food

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first SPN fic, but it is not my first fic. 
> 
> I'm a writer and generally i write exclusively in 3rd person, but I wanted to do a reader insert, like others do. I just couldn't swing writing in 2nd person, i tried, but it felt too weird to me, so i changed it to 1st. So, if you find any stray 'you' or 'your' where they don't belong, that's why. I've been reading so much lately that, in my Dean-trash haze, i got the urge to contribute some plotless smut. So voila!
> 
> Comments and kudos are encouraged and welcome - criticisms too, as long as they're constructive. No need to be a douche about it. All mistakes are mine.

 

All he really needs is a bacon cheeseburger and a cold beer.

And _pie_.

Store bought. Homemade. Restaurant quality. Any amount. Any flavor. Any time. It is always the right choice. He loves other foods too. All foods. But pie is first in that great big heart of his. He pilfers leftover food from my plate, because Sam likes salad and he’d rather not. He’s tried food Sam’s way and life is just too short to eat that crap. Pudding. Candy. And let me tell you, the way he devours mass quantities of candy is an oral fixation by itself.

Tacos. Mini Quiche. It doesn't matter where he is, or what kind of case he’s working, Dean Winchester’s top priorities rank in at: Sam, grub, and _Baby_. Mostly in that order…

Chinese, American, or Italian, it doesn't matter. If it’s universally edible, he will eat it. Philly cheesesteak sandwiches are wonderful. He has a robust and unchecked adoration for the perfect sandwich. Ham and cheese piled high with all the fixings, meatball subs, gooey grilled cheese—he loves them all equally. Turkey. Duck. Chicken. The more birds the better. He wouldn't survive on rabbit food— _he’s a warrior_ —a fact he reminds us of almost daily. And I’d bet good money that if meat juice were a thing, he would be lining up shots.

He loves joints like this one too—a classic retro late 70’s diner. The threadbare, diamond-patterned teal carpeting and faded leather booths show their age. The place is a jumble of peeling Formica, worn Stainless Steel, and large bay windows. They usually come with career waitresses named Flo or Gladys, but he doesn't care. It’s atmospheric and nostalgic, like everything else in his life. The car. The music. The leather jacket…

Dean chose a booth beneath the hiss of red and blue neon signage hanging in the large window. He sits facing the dining area, drumming his fingers on the table. Waiting. He’s been quiet, unusually so.

Our waitress, a cheeky little thing named Suzie, pushes through swinging kitchen doors carrying a full food tray. She sets his plate down in front of him and the gleam in his eyes as they land on the bacon cheeseburger is so brilliant, you can probably see it from across the goddamn street. Giddiness takes over and he’s like an extremely overgrown, ridiculously handsome, large child receiving the thing he wanted most for Christmas.

 

_“Dude, it’s a burger.”_

_“It’s treasure.”_

 

When Dean Winchester is stuffing his face he gives no fucks about anything else, unless that something else involves more eating. He enjoys it, whatever his chosen greasy spoon staple, or fast food paper-wrapped sustenance may be. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, for the biggest bite possible. His eyes roll back and close, but his lips don't. He moans and groans and slurps and licks, and the smack of those plush reddened lips makes his enjoyment feel and sound overtly sexual. There is nothing graceful about it, however. It’s frenzy. Sometimes, especially when he’s starving, he devolves into a little piglet bellying up to the trough and doesn't give two shits who is watching.

I’ve even seen him use that skilled tongue to coax a cocktail weenie off a toothpick, and then watched him lose all composure as that first hit of tangy barbeque sauce met his taste buds. _That_ was the first time I ever wanted to swap places with a food item.

He paused his chewing, cheeks full. _The embodiment of squirrel…_ “What?”

Up to this point I had assumed Crowley called the boys ‘Moose and Squirrel’ as some kind of _Rocky and Bullwinkle_ dig—but that cheek stuffed full of food has me questioning just about everything.

It’s not sexy, but something about it _is_.

“Nothing.”

He nods at the leftover fries on my plate. “You gonna eat those?”

I’m not quite finished with them yet, but saying no to him in any way, shape, or form has been really difficult lately. “Nope. Have at ‘em.”

The glee on his face makes his eyes sparkle, as he pinches his fingers around a few of the salty golden fries on my plate. The way that wet, velvety tongue sweeps out of his mouth and across his luscious bottom lip in anticipation of the first bite is hypnotizing. The way his eyes pinch closed, savoring the salt on his tongue, as he shoves them between those ruddy eager lips is worth giving them up.

It hits me then. Those lips make it X-rated—a deep cupid’s bow and a full bottom lip that mesh together as he wipes his mouth across the back of his hand, because pausing for a napkin is just too much with that much burger in his hands. It should be disgusting…and it’s not. It just draws more of my attention to those fucking lips.

The sheer ecstasy playing across his delicately chiseled man-boy features should be illegal, but food and Dean Winchester is love and it’s pure. So much so, I have to look away from him and his burger.

I turn to sip my cherry coke, a real, actual cherry coke, and wipe the ring of condensation from the table with a napkin. Inevitably, my eyes wander slowly back to him, like they always do.

There is unfairness in how perfect he is—even while shoveling various foodstuffs into his cakehole. Despite that savagely perfect bone structure, the man is fully capable of going from downright _godly_ to _derr,_ and to _psycho overprotective,_ in the span of 3.5 seconds. It’s both breathtaking and endearing and annoying, respectively.

There are lines on his forehead now and crow’s feet beginning to creep up at the corners of his eyes when he laughs and smiles, but he only seems to get better with age. He’s worn the same basic finger-combed hairstyle for more than a decade and, somehow, it still works. His face has filled out, I’m not sure when that happened, it feels like he went from boyish to manly overnight. His smooth, tawny skin pulls taut over cheekbones that I would actually kill for. That nose, with a dusting of cute freckles, has been broken a few times, and somehow that only improves his stupidly beautiful face.

He’s scruffy today. The wiry stubble on his face is at least three days old, and there are places on my body that yearn to feel it rub against them, like the tender spot high on my inner thigh, or scraping the round of my breasts as he nuzzles into the valley between them. I swallow hard, and realize he’s been watching me through heavily lidded eyes, still into the last few bites of that burger, but he hasn't taken his eyes off me… We aren’t like that, though. We aren’t together and I’m not supposed to notice when he stares, or when touches linger a little too long.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Anything wrong?”

“No. Fine.”

He snatches a few more fries from my plate. “You sure?”

The leather squeaks as I adjust myself, pressing my thighs against each other in an attempt to quell the throb that has erupted there. It doesn't ease. My heart thumps faster, I can hear it steadily increase, and being the avid hunter that he is I’m sure he can hear it too.

I slide out of the booth. Standing is a mistake. Shifting my center of gravity, the friction of my tight jeans, and the weight of his stare cause a surge of arousal that I cannot stop. My panties are fucking soaked and if I don't do something about it, he’s going to know, because he’s like that.

Dean shoves his fingers into his mouth, noisily sucking salt and juice and god knows what else off them. “Where you going?”

The husk and deepness of his voice only worsens my predicament. How does he do that, without actually doing anything?

“The ladies,” _if I can get my stupid legs to cooperate…_

His eyes open a little wider, finding the answer perfectly acceptable. Even in bad florescent lighting those eyes are fucking ridiculous. Green. Mostly they are green. His iris is a perfect halo of dark green in the dim lighting. When he wears green, like the army green canvas jacket currently hugging his torso, they are vivid. Sometimes they look brownish-green, or even hazel, but there are so many blues and golden tones in that mix that they seem to change moment to moment. But still, his eyes are mostly a beautiful shade of green.

He bats the thick fringe of eyelash framing those eyes and his lips part, but he doesn't say anything. I realize I’m staring. I’ve been staring at him. And, not only am I unabashedly staring, he caught every fucking second of it.

“Be right back.”

Dean only grunts, clearly amused.

Heat rushes my cheeks, spiraling through my limbs amping up the already out of control arousal. On my way back to find the facilities, I stop at the counter, leaning on the laminate across from where Suzie folds napkins. She’s pretty, and if she were a few years younger he would have been all over that shit…not that that a little thing like age would stop him. When Dean wants sex he goes and gets it. It’s not a big deal for a guy like him.

She looks up at me, mildly concerned. “Something wrong with your food, honey?”

“No. No, the food is fine… I was just hoping you might have pie tonight?”

“Of course,” she chortles. “Baked fresh every morning by yours truly.”

“Any chance you’ve got pecan?”

“No, cherry.”

“Oh.” _Pie is pie, he won't care_. “You know what, that’s perfect. Awesome. You see that sexy son of a bitch over there?”

Suzie abandons the task of napkin folding and turns her attention to the hunter. “He’s hard to miss.”

“That he is… He’s about ready for dessert. Pie is damn near his favorite thing in the world. I need you to bring him a nice big slice of your best and two more pieces boxed up to go, but don't bring those to the table until we’re ready to leave or he’ll eat them.”

The impish smile on the waitresses face amuses me, and I hope she teases the hell out of him when she delivers.

I begin to step away and double back. “Just watch out for _the smolder_ , it’s deadly,” I warn, “and, trust me, he _knows_ how to use it.”

“I’m surprised he doesn't spontaneously combust sitting there.”

A throaty chuckle bursts from my throat. It catches his attention and he looks over, curious. “Hot is the understatement of the year, sister.”

I continue on to the bathroom to handle my business.

Before exiting the bathroom I take a minute to dab at my eye makeup and fluff my wild hair. The jacket has to go. I adjust the tight tank top, juggling cleavage to reveal as much as possible. Staring at my reflection in the restroom mirror, I’ve made a decision… I want him and I’m going to have him, right or wrong be damned.

I want him. Tonight, I’m going to leave a notch in _his_ goddamn bedpost.

Making my way back toward the table, his head cocks at me. I feel his gaze rake down the length of my body and it’s heavy, it feels like another set of groping hands. The thought of his hands on my body, touching me that way, only stokes my fire. My jacket lands in the seat as I slide back into the booth.

He’s beaming, a giant slice of pie in front of him.

“Thanks.” Is all he says, but it comes with adoration and appreciation laced through the deep reverberation of sound.

“You’re welcome, handsome.”

He cuts into the pie with his fork, scooping a large hunk onto the fork and brings it to his lips. Dean Winchester and Pie is relationship goals. The relationship of all relationships… and, honestly, it’s almost as kinky as his deal with the car.

His lips purse as he coos at the cherry goodness and those plush lips expand and contract around the fork. Watching him tongue the gooeyness off the tines is a guilty pleasure of mine. Like with his stubble, I picture that tongue working other more sensitive parts of my body.

“You want in on this?” he asks, through the mouthful.

“That’s all you, baby.”

He leans forward, swallowing. “You’re buttering me up for something.”

“I am not.”

“Yeah…you are.” He takes another sizeable bite. “What is it?”

“Can’t I do something nice for a fellow hunter?”

His eyebrow arches. _High alert_. The way he’s eying me, I can already tell his bullshit meter is ticking, despite the teasing glimmer in his eye. He has to know what I want already, it isn’t a well-kept secret. In fact, I’m almost positive he knows I want to bang the life out of him on the hood of his fucking car and leave him in a quivering, sweaty, messy heap.

“Fine. I was thinking, since we have no case, and there are no end of the world type emergencies, at the moment, we might be able to go for a drive and hang out a little, and the pie is an incentive to get you to do what I want.”

The smile touching his lips is small, but amazingly sincere. “We drive everywhere, Y/N.”

My name rolls out of his mouth all velvety and warm, makes me shiver every time he says it. “I know, but that’s different. That kind of driving comes with a specific destination and sense of danger and urgency…it’s a nice night, we should enjoy it.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but clearly understands that there is more to the request. He doesn't push for more. _Yet._ He will. It’s only a matter of time, because he’s a Winchester. “After I finish my pie.”

“Of course.”

He grins wide and takes another amorous bite. The smile plastered across his face is one I haven’t seen in a while. It’s mesmerizing and I miss it when it’s gone.

Dean cuts the last hunk of pie in half and stabs into one of the pieces. He holds the fork up between us, looking at me expectantly while offering up the second to last bite. How can I refuse him again?

Leaning forward, I touch my fingers to his and open my mouth for the bite of pie. My lips wrap around his fork and I let my eyes dart to his, for a moment, before I close them and savor the tangy cherry hitting my tongue.

He waits as my eyes flutter open again. The light in his eyes darkens and a sultry smile plays across his lips. “Good isn’t it?”

Suzie winks at me as she drops off the extra pie I asked for, also a white plastic fork and heap of napkins. Dean’s gaze shifts between the white box and me. He’s doing the thing he does with Sam, where they have entire conversations with each other, but don't say words. It doesn't work the same way with me, but in this case I think I understand enough of his non-verbal queues to fake it.

He whips a hand out to grab the box and I slap his fingers away. “That’s for later.”

His lips purse into a pout and he looks almost heartbroken for a minute. It’s the most adorably stupid thing I’ve seen today.

“Dude.”

“ _Pie_ ,” he almost whines.

The childlike utterance is both appealing and exasperating. “You just had pie, Dean, _and_ a bacon cheeseburger _and_ fries _and_ beer—”

“Fine,” he concedes, leaving Suzie a very generous tip. “But don't expect me to share it later.”

 

...


	2. /Porn

 

We leave the diner and head toward _Baby._

Dean’s sleek, black 1967 Chevy Impala waits in a space in the rear of the lot, by herself, far from other swinging car doors and assholes who can’t park for shit. Humans, monsters, angels and demons, everyone knows this car. 

_Baby_ is pure muscle, eighteen feet of actual badass that Dean has rebuilt from scratch more than once. He loves this car—almost more than he loves food. The glossy black paint glints under the glow of a streetlight, reflecting a perfect mirror finish he applied himself. There are many things to love about the car, more than her ability to go 0 to 100 in 7.2 seconds, things like the Lego blocks Dean shoved into the air vents when he was a kid that he puts back every single time he rebuilds her. They rattle when he turns the heat on. Or the army guy Sam wedged into the backdoor ashtray. The initials they carved into the back with a pocketknife, all those years ago. Sometimes when he talks to her or about her, he talks like she’s human and not some pristine machine.

He unlocks the passenger door to let me in, before making his way around to the driver’s side. I toss my jacket in the back and slide into the car. My body folds over the middle of the bench seat, as I gently set the pie down in the back.

If he doesn't approve of the way I’m bent over the front bench, he doesn't voice it—probably because my ass in the air is not only distracting, but also dangerously close to his head. Hopefully, it gives him plenty of ideas for extra curricular activities.

Dean shoves the key into the ignition and turns it over, the engine roars to life with a low, throaty rumble. That burbling gallop has become one of my favorite sounds. It jangles and grumbles, loudly. It’s unlike anything else, a staccato muffled roar that almost feels alive. But it’s not just the sound of a well-tooled camshaft. It’s him. The sound means at least one Winchester is nearby. It means safety.

I slide back down and settle into the middle of the seat, close to him. He doesn't say anything about that either, but there is a look. It makes my stomach tight and warm. _He knows…_

He hits the stereo dial and adjusts the volume as we pull out onto the empty darkened road ahead. There’s a tape already in the deck, a mixtape of Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Seger that he made when he was a kid. I’m glad it’s that tape, the mellower classic rock makes setting the mood so much easier.

We drive into the night and end up lakeside, god knows where.

At some point during the drive, I had pressed into his side and his arm wrapped around me and stayed there. The weight and comfort that comes with it are things I didn't expect. He smells good too. A hint of the food we ate lingers—and who doesn't love bacon? But there is also a woodsy, herbaceous scent that clings to him, from his deodorant I think, but it’s earthy and I like it. There is a trace of motor oil, which might be him or the car, and a touch of cheap motel soap. Gunpowder too…

Dean parks and kills the engine awkwardly with his left hand. Neither of us moves a muscle. We sit pressed into each other, taking in the view. It’s beautiful, but the company is so much better.

Sam called once, to find out where the hell we were. I don't know what he said to Dean, but when he asked to talk to me, it was clear that Sam knew exactly what was about to happen between us. He doesn't think hooking up is a good idea. The fallout and consequences are too heavy. He’s probably right, but I can’t bring myself to care about that. I don't. I just want to lose myself in the feel of him and worry about the aftermath later. I’m not a moron, or mentally deficient. I understand that Dean Winchester comes with a no strings attached agreement. It’s just better for him that way. I’m not about to fall apart if this is a one-time deal, and Sam knows that. But he’s also seen a great number of girls claim to understand all that, fall for his brother anyway, and walk away brokenhearted. I feel like I’m already an exception to that, being a hunter, not some damsel who needs to be protected or rescued.

“I know what you want,” he whispers, ghosting a lip along the curve of my ear. “I’ve always known.”

The air in the car thickens and it only gets hotter as I tilt my face up to his. As I shift, his fingers tighten on my back, digging into me. My eyes meet his and, clearly, I’m not the only one who wants this to happen. Neither of us has made any real attempts to hide the arousal. There are no classic-Dean cheesy pick-ups for me. No real nervousness or hesitation, because he already has me—had me from the jump.

I grab the lapel of his jacket and pull, until his mouth is an inch from mine, but I don't take what I want. Not yet. “You’re a very smart man, Dean… Do you know how long I’ve waited to touch you? How bad I want you?”

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I let my hand trail down the middle of his chest, fingers splayed and winding down the black t-shirt beneath his jacket. Down his abdomen, which clenches and releases beneath my touch. Down… Those plush waiting lips part as I cup the sensitive bulge, giving his cock a firm stroke through the denim.

He’s tall and well muscled, but his body isn’t as large or quite as cut as Sam’s, because having _all_ the abs is about 85% what you put in your mouth, and with Dean that generally means anything that’s edible. His broad shoulders taper into a V shape at his waist, and, god, _that ass_ — I tease the lines of his abdomen as I move my hand back up his body. He still has an awesome six-pack, despite his ridiculous trucker diet. Chasing monsters is a regular workout.

My name breaks from his lips, followed by an unrepentant, “I want you, too.”

Thick, long thighs round out his sturdy frame and I want to climb him like a goddamn tree. Sick of fighting it, I grip the shoulder opposite me, and pull myself up, into his lap, straddling him. He gasps as I grind my pelvis into his.

“So have me.”

Both his hands grip my thighs, just below my ass, and I wish I’d had the foresight to wear a skirt tonight, instead of skinny jeans.

He leans up to close the small gap between us. I press my lips into his, with little more than a peck. His mouth is supple, pliant, but firm. _Real_. The soft mesh of our lips moves into something deeper. He pelts me with scorching open-mouthed kisses, each growing in intensity and heat. They are simple, but hard. Gentle, but greedy. So very Dean Winchester. He doesn't need to be prompted to give more; he does it automatically, using his plush lips to part mine, _his signature move…_ followed by dipping that velvety tongue into my mouth to slowly deepen each smooch a little more.

Before this moment, I believed that old adage about a kiss just being a kiss, but nothing in my previous experience even compares to _this_. I sink into the warmth of his embrace. Pressing into his chest, I can only return his wanton passion.

He breaks from me, briefly, and only to pant for a few gulps of air. I edge closer to him, wrapping both arms around his neck.

Both his hands are on my face, cupping my jaw, and pawing to pull me closer. His tongue teases across my bottom lip again, coaxing me into a desperate French kiss. My heart thumps into a pace. Heat spreads through every limb. But I hear almost nothing, only the fuzz of blood racing through my veins and rushing my ears.

I thread my fingers into his hair, at the nape of his neck. He purrs. I don't pull, only close that fist. Dean growls and draws back slightly, tilting his head to the other side, before capturing my mouth again, _harder_. I submit fully to the plunder of that ardent tongue.

Kissing him isn’t remotely the way I imagined. It’s better. God. So much better…

I shove his jacket open, pushing his t-shirt up. Both my hands slide back down his body, into the space between us. The thin black leather belt slides through my fingers as I undo the buckle. I jerk the buttons on his jeans and all of them pull open easily, with the help of the erection struggling for freedom.

My vivid imagination has done him a great injustice.

Dick is not something I would ever classify as ‘beautiful’, but _Jesus,_ even that is beautiful on him. It’s velvet and vein springing up from a thatch of light brown hair, straighter than most, and also bigger than I thought. I don't know why I’m surprised. Everything about this man is wholly unbelievable—every scar, every mark, every freckle—hell, even the bad and annoying stuff is charming.

Once I’ve got him in my hands, no more of his clothes come off. Dean grunts as I wrap my fingers around the shaft, barely able to close them around him. The head is broad and silky, but the girth… he might actually hurt.

He pops the button on my jeans and lowers the zipper, pushing his hands around my waist to my backside. Teasing the stiff waistband, he shoves his fingers beneath the denim, taking a fistful of cheek in each hand. He’s squeezing my ass so hard, I hope he leaves marks. He works his way further down, teasing me with his fingertips. I want to slide across the seat and take his dick in my mouth. I want him to eat me. If only I wasn't so impatient… but I’m already sloppy wet. And, God, I’ve wanted this for so long that I really can’t wait anymore. He seems to understand, and it takes me another minute to notice the man actually mirrors my desperation. He wants this just as bad.

It takes some work and determination to get my tight jeans off, while pressed together in the driver’s seat of his Impala. And honestly, I don’t need foreplay right now. I need him. There will be time for all the rest later—because I’m suddenly sure that there will be more to come.

Shifting up to my knees again, I take control, rolling my hips into position above him. He lets me lead. Dean is not submissive, but he’s not dominant either, and that surprises me too.

Our eyes meet as I give his shaft a stroke. God, I know better than this. We both do. I should not be riding him raw, but I’m going to… I want to feel it all, every inch, every twinge, every sensation.

My hips pivot and I plunge down his shaft without too much warning.

“Fuck,” he growls.

I need another minute to adjust to his presence, but don't take it. I can’t. I’m so fucking worked up. And it _does_ hurt, but it’s so good. All I can do is claw into his chest to steady myself as my hips jerk into an urgent pump.

He’s watching my body repeatedly swallow his, keeping a brutal grip on my hips as he guides me. His dick is so hard it’s like rebar inside me and I love it. The stretch and the fullness are heady and satisfying. When he hits the right angle I can feel him in my fucking throat, it makes me clench hard.

His gaze moves back up, ogling my heaving chest, which is still covered by clothing. I rock on him, more upright, taken aback by the almost puppy dog look in his eyes. This is an easily solvable situation, but I know he’s not about to ease his grip on my hips. _Silly rabbit_ … I still want to feel that scruff, so I make it easy for him, pulling both breasts from my bra and up and over the neck of my tank top. It will stretch out, but I don't care.

Oddly enough, that’s the thing that does ease his grip. Dean slows the pace a little, and leans forward, gently nuzzling in. Both my nipples pucker before he touches them, with his hand or mouth, the stubble on his cheek rubbing against my skin sends me into a full on fucking frenzy—like I knew it would—and I can’t get enough of him.

My hips tilt, trying to increase the friction, as I lean back, into the steering wheel. He cups my breasts nipping and biting his way around them. A particularly hard nip makes my whole body jerk, sending my elbow into the horn.

Dean chuckles at the bleat, but doesn't stop what he’s doing.

His arms wrap tight around my waist, as he plants both feet on the floor. “If I had known you’d feel this fucking good…”

_We would have started banging each other senseless much sooner—_ “I know.”

He thrusts up, _hard_ , and I swear to god, that is not a whimper leaving my lips…

Everything about him is tough, so the tenderness and consideration are not things I expected from this man. I thought sex with him would be more animalistic and brutish, but, again, he has managed to surprise me.

The car rocks, heavy groans and creaks. Windows have steamed up. The songs on his mixtape mingle with our panting and grunting. It’s loud in the confined space. He lets the ruddy, beaded nipple slip from his lips and sinks his teeth into the round of my breast and the noise he makes is so primal it sends a shiver up my spine.

I lock my arms around his neck and he pulls me flush against him. His hands slide up my back, gripping both shoulders. His fingers dig into them, driving my whole body down his length that way. It’s hard and steady and almost too much.

When his cock contracts, my senses are so heightened I can actually feel it reverberate through me. “Come, Dean.”

He says something, but it comes out as little more than an intelligible grunt that might be my name.

One hand drops from my shoulder, the other stays where it is. He’s thrusting as deep as he can in this position. His hand slides down between our bodies and I jump as the pads of his fingers sweep over my swollen clit. And before I even know what happened, I’m giving into to the quake of an orgasm. It’s like someone pulled a ripcord on the thing holding back all of my emotional garbage, because suddenly I feel _everything_. I fucking love the man bucking beneath me. As he’s thrusting up, I catch his eye. For a split second, I would believe him if he told me he loves me too—but I know better. A grunt breaks from him as he spills into my body, giving himself over to his own release.

We ride it out together, clinging to each other as a flood of sensations overwhelms, and we sink into the tan bench seat together. My sweaty forehead presses into his. Neither of us makes an attempt to part, or move. I realize my plan to leave him in a sweaty heap worked, I just didn't count on being sucked into it with him.

“I knew you would be a good fuck.”

His laugh is an almost silent chuckle.

The soft, melodic bleed of a guitar filters through the speakers. It’s a song we both know well. Ronnie Van Zant’s voice fills the car, isolated from everything but the guitar. His voice is pure and passionate and so heartfelt that you can tell this song meant something to him, and to the band. Then the music swells into the chorus and we’re both quietly singing along, hoarse and out of breath. The song is the epitome of Dean Winchester, his fucking life anthem. Despite his badass supernatural destiny and all the losses and sacrifice he’s had to endure in his life, the way he lives his life, he really is just a _Simple Man…_ and maybe someday he will have that apple pie life.

Someday, but not yet, he still has far too much work to do.

As the song comes to a close, I rock up on my knees and slide off his shaft. Coming off him hurts. Not physical pain, but it’s a break of our connection. A connection I’m not quite ready to break, if I’m being honest. He’s blinking away confusion as I climb off him—he wasn't ready either.

I shift over the seat. His hands fly to my hips, pulling me back down into his lap. Despite his grip, I manage to snag the takeout box and fork from the backseat and hold it up between us.

The childlike gleam returns to his eye, amuses me. After a beat, I open the lid and reveal the two extra pieces of pie I ordered.

A goofy smile breaks over his features, lighting up his whole face. “Y/N, you’re awesome.”

The grin on my face is probably just as dopey. “I know.”

 

...

End


End file.
